Into The Light (Three Rivers #1)

Chapter 4

Four

NOELLE

I clutch my phone in both hands, trying like crazy to keep a tight rein on hope. This space is absolutely perfect—right on Main Street between Compass and Brookline, sandwiched between a coffee shop and a photography studio. It’s a blank slate, with nothing but open space, large black-and-white checkered tile flooring, and plain white walls. All I’d need are the stations and some decorations, a little counter or desk for the cash register and appointment book, and some shelving for merchandise. It has two bathrooms, a small office, and a back door to a little alley nook for breaks, with a nearby private dumpster for trash, complete with a locking fence.

I keep my voice even as the showing agent waits for my response. "It's very nice. What's the asking rent?"

Vicki, the agent, lists a number that makes my eyes water, and my eyebrow twitch.

"Is there any wiggle room on that?"

Vicki winces. "Maybe a little, but not much. You know spaces on Main Street go fast, Noelle. If you want it, I'd put in an offer soon. Like, within forty-eight hours, max. I've already shown it six times and it's only been listed a week."

"Okay, well, let me crunch some numbers and get back to you. Thanks, Vicki.” I smile at her and make my exit, fighting tears of disappointment.

No way in heckle-schmeckle I can swing that rent, even if I don’t pay myself. It’s triple the amount I’m paying for my house, and that's just rent—add utilities for both, plus the overhead of the business itself? Forget it.

Maybe if I let go of my house and get an apartment, I could finagle the numbers enough to make it work. Maybe . But all the apartments are farther from downtown than I want to be. Plus, I love my house. It's cute, and it has just enough space for me and my little collection of things. It's cozy and quiet and a few blocks away from Main Street.

If only I could have a dog, it would be even more perfect. But so far, I haven't been able to get Richard to budge on that topic. My plan all along has been to make Richard an offer to buy it from him, but my investigation into comps in the area put it out of reach for a few more years, at least at my current rate of income. If I were to shell out the bucks for a place like the one I just saw, things would get even tighter.

Ugh.

"Someday," I tell myself. "Someday."

I stop in at Pints Mom needs help in the garden at home; Dad needs a trim; Nat needs me to feed and play with her blue and gold macaw, Patch, because she agreed to work a double shift; Nik needs me to style her hair for an interview for the prime time news anchor slot; the boys are trying out for parts in a play at the Three Rivers Theater and need me to run lines with them.

I love my family, but gosh, they all come to me when they need something, and I can't ever seem to say no. I've never been able to say to no them. I don't mind, most of the time. But it sure does get exhausting.

I’m going to go see him today, I decide, as Riley and Bear pull away at the green light. Especially because our usual Friday night Trivia gathering has been canceled—Thomas and Colin have a wedding, Raina has a family thing, and Kyle and Ashlynn are both working late.

I take my sandwich across Main Street and eat it on a bench overlooking the water, letting my thoughts wander, as they do so often lately, back to Bear.

He was so shy and hesitant. Every time I touched him, no matter how innocently—and it was all innocent—he would look at me in shock, as if unable to figure out why I would do such a thing. Other than that brush of his thumb over the scrapes on my palm, he hasn't made physical contact of any kind with me. He won't pull away, but neither will he touch me first.

The man has secrets, that much is obvious. Deep ones. Dark ones. There's pain in his eyes. The tattoos on his arms hide scars. Yet for all that, he's gentle, quiet, and still. I feel no fear of him, even though he seems to expect it. I mean, I get it. If all you were to go on was his appearance, sure, he's intimidating as all heck. But there's more to him—a lot more. He hides it, but that just makes getting it out of him that much more of an intriguing challenge.

Finished with my lunch, I head back to the salon in time for my one o'clock with Maggie Hendricks, and her soft patter about her grandkids keeps my mind occupied—and after that, I'm so busy I have no time to think about Bear.

I'm still in my work clothes, but my last appointment ran super long—Ella came in for a blowout and ended up with a cut and color and a blowout, which is good for my bank account, but meant I couldn't clock out and lock up until after seven, and the shelter closes at seven-thirty.

It's quarter after by the time I park behind the shelter and go inside. I'm greeted by the welcome cacophony of barking dogs and the scent of fur and whatever else. The bell announces my presence, and Gloria hustles out.

"Why, it's Noelle Harper. Another stray?" She peers over the counter expectantly.

"Actually," I pause, clear my throat, and hope my embarrassed flush isn't too obvious. "I wanted to go back and talk to Bear for a few minutes. I thought I’d help him do whatever it is he's doing."

Gloria's eyes twinkle knowingly. "Ahh, I see. That man has been a godsend. Dogs and cats both love him, and he doesn't mind doing the dirty work. I admit I had my reservations, what with a murder conviction on his record, but after talking to Riley and watching him with the animals, it's obvious he's sweet as sugar, just a little misunderstood, maybe. Goodness knows I don’t know the circumstances of his conviction, but I figure there has to be a mistake of some kind because I just can’t see a man as kind and gentle and patient as he is killing anyone.” Her eyes widen, and she claps a hand over her mouth. “There I go again—me and my big mouth. Forget I said anything?"

Murder conviction? Holy crappy-doodles.

But as Gloria said, there must have been a mistake.

She waves me to the back. “He's giving Roger a bath right now—the poor idiot pooped in his cage again. Just follow the howling.”

As I pass her, Gloria catches my arm. "Do tread softly with that one, dear. He's one of those still-waters-run-deep types. And try to forget what I said—it wasn't my place to say anything, it's just my mouth runs away from my brain sometimes."

I pat her hand. "It's okay, Gloria. Thank you."

I push through the batwing doors—the volume increases tenfold, and I follow the sound of a howling husky to the back of the shelter; along the way, I pass dogs, cats, bunnies, parrots, and even three adorable white rats together in a cage. Another set of doors takes me to a subway-tiled room with a waist-height stainless steel wash basin running along one wall, with restaurant-style springy spray hoses at regular intervals, with hooks on the wall for clipping leashes.

Bear is at one of the stations, his broad back to me, gigantic arms flexing as he holds a writhing, shaking, yowling husky in place with one hand, scrubbing it with the other.

The husky is downright yelling, making a noise that sounds for all the world like "No! No! No!"

And Bear answers. "Yes, yes, yes. Don't talk back to me."

"Row-row-row- ROW !"

"I know you don't like baths. Next time, don't shit in your cage. Wait for me to walk you."

"Wow-row- ROW -row."

“Yes, it is your fault. You know better. I told you I'd walk you."

"Row- row -row-row."

"I was not too slow. I was busy, you ungrateful turd."

" Rrrrow ."

"Rude."

I can't help the snort that escapes me at this exchange, and Bear glances at me over his shoulder.

"Oh, hey. You came."

"Hi, you. Yeah, sorry it took so long. Been a busy week." I edge closer. “Can I help?"

"You're gonna get wet."

I shrug out of my sling purse, hang it from a hook, and find a blue shelter apron on another and tie it around my waist. "A little water never hurt anyone."

"Tell that to Roger."

I move up beside Bear, snickering at the pissed-off expression on the big husky's face. "Hi there, Roger," I say, taking the dog's wet, soapy scruff from Bear so he can use both hands to finish lathering.

"Row-row."

"That sounded like hello, to me," I say.

Bear nods. "Yep. He's a talker."

"Yeah, I heard the two of you having quite the disagreement."

"Roger was being a turd."

"Row- ROW -row-row-row." I wasn’t being a turd.

"Yes, you were."

"Row-row-row- row ." No, I was not.

"Do you argue with dogs a lot, Bear?" I ask, giggling as Roger tries to shake off, only to huff in annoyance when Bear snags his scruff and prevents him from doing so.

"Nope. Just with this loveable dickhead."

"Row-row-row-row-row-row?" Who are you calling a dickhead?

"You, you dickhead." Bear glances at me. "Gotta rinse him. Hang on tight."

I clutch Roger's neck scruff with both hands, turning his face to mine. "Hold still for me, buddy, okay? The more you cooperate, the faster it'll be over."

"Row-rooooo." Says you .

I splutter and laugh as Bear hoses Roger with the sprayer; the dog goes apeshit, struggling against my hold as he tries to escape and shake off. "Hold still, butthead!"

" ROW ! Row-roo-row!" NO! Let me go!

Bear moves behind me, momentarily framing me with his huge body, transferring the sprayer to his other hand so he can rinse Roger's other side and under-body.

My hold slips and Roger manages a few sharp shakes, spraying us with soapy water before I can grab hold again. "Sorry, sorry. His fur is slippery."

"Almost…done." Bear nudges Roger's chin up and gives his chest and belly one last spray. "Okay. On three, let him go and back up. Ready? One…two… three ."

In unison, Bear and I back away from Roger, who gives us a scathing glare of death and doom before shaking vigorously. He leaps down and bolts around the room, then, with a wild case of the zoomies, pausing now and then to shake again—perhaps not so incidentally doing so right near us.

Bear grabs a thick white towel from a stack on a shelf and snags Roger as he zips past, hauling him around. "Time to dry off, Rog."

"ROW!" NO! "Row-roooo!" I'm zooming!

My heart melts a little, watching how gentle Bear's huge hands are as he towels the obstinate creature dry. After toweling him off, Bear and I take turns running a brush through Roger's thick fur, until he's glossy and handsome.

"How did a handsome fella like this end up here?" I ask Bear. "Do you know?"

Bear shrugs. "Huskies sound like a good idea until you have one."

"Why's that?"

He gestures at Roger, who, now that he's been released from his grooming, has resumed his maniacal zoomies. "They're too damn smart for their own good. They talk back. Endless energy. He's like this literally all the time. No off switch."

"Why Bear, that was, like, six whole sentences at once!" I tease.

He blinks at me owlishly. "What do you mean?"

I laugh. "I'm teasing you."

"Oh."

I peer up at him. "You do know that I’m just playing around, right? I'm not actually making fun of you."

He nods slowly. "I know."

“ Bear ?” Gloria's voice echoes from the front, sounding scared. " HELP !"

"Grab Roger." Bear hands me a leash and bolts for the front, moving faster and more gracefully than a man of his size has any right to move.

I leash Roger and walk him to the cages, finding the empty one with his name handwritten on a tag. I put him in and unclip the leash, latch the cage, and hustle for the front.

Gloria is huddled behind the counter, shaking, as no fewer than four burly, brown-uniformed county Animal Control officers struggle to contain the single most horrifying creature I've ever laid eyes on.

It's gargantuan, a barking, drooling, slavering, snarling beast the size of a lion with short, mottled-brown fur, pointed ears, and a long, whip-like tail. The mammoth animal is a killing machine with huge, crushing jaws and curved, slicing talons on his dinner-plate paws. Even with a leash muzzling his jaws closed and a spiked collar digging viciously into the thick fur at its neck, the monstrous dog is seconds from breaking loose and murdering us all.

Bear faces the beast from a couple of feet away, hands at his sides, cooly and calmly regarding the two-hundred-pound murder machine.

"His owner died," one of the officers explains between grunts of effort. “Won’t respond to commands. If you guys don’t take him, we’re putting him down. He’s fucking dangerous as hell."

Bear grunts in response, crouching. "Wait a second." He rises and inches closer. "Hold him."

"Fuckin' trying, man. This big fucker is impossible to hold." The officer is a big, thick-necked man himself, as are the other three, and even with four of the telescoping noose things around his neck, the dog is dragging all four men across the tile floor.

Bear gets ahold of the huge, terrifying dog's collar, glancing at the nametag. "Panzer."

"Yeah? So?" the officer snaps.

Bear lets the shiny gold nametag go and backs up. "Sitz." It sounds like sits; I assume it means sit.

Immediately, the dog ceases struggling and plops his butt onto the floor.

"Platz." Pl-AH-ts.

The dog, Panzer, lays on his belly. It means to lay down, I guess.

"Bleib." Bl-eye-b. Bear glances at the officers. "Give him some slack."

"Are you fuckin' nuts?" Bear just stares, and the officer shakes his head. "Fine. Your funeral."

They slowly ease off the pressure, until it's apparent Panzer isn't going anywhere.

"Take them off."

One by one, the animal control officers remove the hook-loop-pole-things, moving slowly and gingerly; as soon as the tools are free, their hands go to the tasers on their belts.

Bear holds Panzer's gaze. He pats his thigh. "Komm. Fuss.” K-oh-m; fooss.

Instantly, the dog bolts forward, curls in a tight circle, and stands at Bear's side, his big ribcage against Bear's thigh.

"Braver Hund, Panzer. Braver Hund." Br-ah-ver hoond.

"The fuck?" one of the officers mutters. "German?"

Bear nods. "Highly trained guard dogs like this are taught in German. He won’t respond to English commands because he doesn’t know them."

“Fuck me. He's like a different dog entirely,” the first officer says.

Bear unhooks the wicked-looking barbed collar and tosses it away. "He was hurt and scared. His owner died. He’s upset."

"He destroyed the house his owner was living in. An older guy who lived alone. Neighbors eventually called the cops due to the smell. Cops called us. Could barely get this guy here."

Gloria emerges from the corner. "I don't know about that one, Bear."

Bear crouches in front of Panzer, ruffling his ear as he slips the muzzle off. "He's mine. I'll take him."

"But Bear—" Gloria shimmies around the counter and huddles behind Bear's bulk, peering nervously around him at the massive dog, who is now standing in the same place, panting and grinning happily up at Bear. "Are you sure ? I don't know if your apartments allow dogs."

"My problem, not yours." Bear juts his chin up at the animal control officers. "Thanks, fellas. We're good."

"You're sure?" the lead officer asks, obviously skeptical.

"I'm sure. He'll stand there just like that until I say otherwise, whether it's five minutes or an hour." Bear ruffles Panzer's ears. "Sitz, Panzer."

Panzer plops his butt down and resumes panting. Bear goes around the counter and through the doors, but Panzer only watches him go with a concerned look on his face. After a moment, Panzer gives a sad little whine in his throat.

Bear reappears, and Panzer goes back to happy panting. "See?"

"Craziest shit I've ever seen, man," one officer says as they troop out the door.

Gloria rubs her face with both hands. "That was rather frightening."

"How did you know?" I ask.

"His name tag," Bear answers. "Panzer is a German word. Means tank."

"You speak German?" I ask, unable to hide my shock.

"Not really. My cellmate was German. Trained dogs professionally for the police and military as well as private owners. He taught me a few words—commands, mostly."

I have a billion questions, and I’m not sure which one to ask first, or how to ask any of them.

Gloria sighs. "Well, kids, that was about all the excitement this old lady can handle for one day. You can go, Bear, I’ll close up. Thanks for all your help today, dear."

Bear grunts and nods. "See you tomorrow."

"Are you really taking that dog home?" Gloria asks.

“Yeah. I'll figure something out."

“I’ll get the adoption paperwork together for you tomorrow. You can take a bowl, leash, and some food if you'd like."

Bear doesn't smile at her, but his expression softens. He's fond of Gloria. "Thank you."

"Bear," I murmur. "You can't take him to your apartment. They don't allow dogs."

Bear just shrugs. "No one in the unit below me, or across. Be fine for one night."

"And then?"

"Dunno. Maybe he can sleep at the yard."

I frown up at him. "The yard?"

"Headquarters." He taps the logo of his work shirt—Crowe demolitions. "Equipment yard."

"Why not take him there tonight?"

"Have to ask Riley first."

"So call him and ask?"

A sigh. "No phone. Don't know his number."

I blink at him. "You don't have a cell phone?"

"Nope. No need."

Back to one and two-word answers, now, apparently.

"Well, it'll be tight quarters, but I'll drive you two home."

Bear shrugs. "Not far. I can walk."

"Bear." I take his hand. "C'mon."

He gazes down at me, at our joined hands—his fingers tighten ever so slightly around mine. "Alright."

It is indeed tight quarters in my little CR-V, what with a giant man and equally giant dog. Panzer huffs constantly, fogging the back windows until I lower one, at which point he hangs his huge head out and lolls his tongue, jowls flapping in the wind.

"He sure is funny, now that he's not acting like a murder machine," I say. "What kind of dog is he? Never seen one like him."

“Cane Corso." CAH-ney COR-so.

"What made you adopt him? I ask.

A shrug. "I understand him."

I glance at him, and wait—my father, a psychology professor, long ago taught me the value of a leading silence.

Bear looks at me, and then out the window. "Big, scary, unwanted, and misunderstood. People see his size and how intimidating he is and nothing else."

"Bear," I murmur. "I see you."

He shakes his head, swallowing hard. "Noelle…"

"What?"

A sigh. "I'm not…" he trails off.

"Not what, Bear?" I press.

We pull into his complex and I park in front of his building.

Bear chews on the inside of his cheek, making his mustache twitch. "A lot of things."

"Like what?" I know I’m pushing, but I can't help it.

I want to know more about him. I want to know everything. I see it all bubbling away inside him, unexpressed as if he just doesn’t know how to let it out.

"I've done bad things, Noelle."

I twist in the seat to face him. "Are you going to hurt me?"

He frowns. "Never."

I shrug and smile. "Okay, then. I believe you. I feel it. I know it's true. I told you, already; I'm not scared of you."

"If you knew what I’d done…"

I swallow hard. “Gloria, she…she didn’t mean to, but she sort of let it slip that you had a murder conviction. That's what she was so scared of that day we met."

Bear growls a sigh. "Manslaughter and armed robbery."

"I don't really know the difference."

A shrug. "Degrees of severity and levels of intent."

"Will you tell me about it?"

He frowns at me. "You really wanna know?"

“Yeah, I do."

At that moment, Panzer whines in his throat and gives a soft little whuff.

"He's gotta go, I think. Need to walk him."

“Okay. We can walk and talk."

We get out, and Bear gathers the leash, food and water bowls, and the small bag of kibble and deposits it all on the bottom step leading up to his unit.

Leash in hand, Bear pats his thigh. "Fuss."

Instantly, Panzer, who was waiting in the backseat with the door open, bounds out of the car, leaving it rocking on its springs, and halts at Bear's right leg.

"Gosh, he's really well-trained, isn't he?"

Bear nods. "Very."

We amble unhurriedly along the narrow strip of grass between the parking lot and the road circling the complex; after a few hundred feet, Panzer lifts his leg to piddle on a maple sapling. A few feet farther down, he squats to drop a dookie the size of a chihuahua. Bear digs a plastic bag from his pocket and scoops it up, twists the bag a few times, turns it inside out to put another layer of plastic around the yuck, and ties it off.

We continue on in easy silence—I can tell, somehow, that Bear is thinking about what to say, so I give him the space to think.

Ahead, a fat raccoon waddles away from the fenced-off dumpster; Panzer's whole body tightens, quivering, ears flicked upright and swiveled forward, tail stiff, but he doesn't leave Bear's heel, a soft whine his only protest.

"Braver Hund, Panzer," Bear mutters, once the raccoon is out of sight.

The dog looks up at him and whuffs quietly.

"He's amazing," I say. "I thought for sure that raccoon was dinner."

“He's a guard dog. Trained to obey his human no matter what."

We make it halfway around the complex before Bear speaks again.

"You really wanna know?"

I can't help myself—I slip my hand into his and press into his side. "I do. But only if you want to tell me. I'll still be your friend if you don't."

He peers down at me. "My…friend?"

I smile. "Yup. Friend. Ever have one of those?" I tease, poking his side; it's like poking a brick wall.

"Sort of." A thoughtful pause. "Well, yes. Matt, my cellmate. But that's a little different than normal friendship."

"I have so many questions, Bear. So many."

He lets one corner of his mouth curve up a little, in the closest thing to a smile I've ever seen on him. "So many, huh?"

"Like, at least sixty-seven."

A snort. "That's a lot."

"I mean, yeah. You're sort of enigmatic."

"Enigmatic?"

I'm tempted to tell him what it means, but I don't want to assume he doesn’t know. Just because he’s a huge guy who’s been to prison doesn’t mean he’s stupid or uneducated.

"Very." I'm still holding onto his hand, and it's just so easy to walk with him, hand in hand, like we've done it forever.

Every so often, he twitches his hand, tightening and loosening, and looks down at our joined hands.

When he does it again, I glance up at him. "Why do you do that? Just curious."

"Do what?"

"Squeeze my hand. Look at our hands."

"Oh." He shrugs. "Make sure I'm not holding too tight. Don't wanna hurt your little hand."

I feign indignance. "My hand is not small."

He snorts and holds his palm up; I fit mine up against his, the bottoms of our palms lined up. He can curl his fingers over mine almost double. "Tiny." He glances at me as we join hands and continue walking. "I also just…." He trails off. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

"What? Tell me, please."

He hesitates a moment or two and then sighs. “You, holding my hand. Gotta remind myself it's real."

My heart burns at this. "Bear…why wouldn't it be real?"

He shakes his head. "Hard to explain."

"Try me?"

A long pause. “Easier to tell you why I went to prison."

"You don't have to tell me anything," I say. "But I'd like to know everything."

"Grew up…rough," he says, after a moment of thought. "Dad died before I was born. Mom couldn't handle taking care of me, I guess, so she turned me over to the state."

"Oh my gosh, Bear. I'm so sorry. That's awful."

A shrug. "I guess. Foster home to foster home, none of them good, till I was twelve. That last family was fucked up. Mom tried to do things to me, Dad kicked the shit out of me, and their kids made fun of me and did all sorts of mean shit. So I took off."

The burn in my heart increases, and my eyes sting. "Bear, my goodness. That's…how can people be like that?"

A soft snort. "Most people are, in my experience." Another pause. "Was a street kid after that. How I ended up in the gang." He touches the tattoo I asked about. "Three-One-Three Bishops."

He looks down at me; I'm on his left, Panzer on his right. The light is fading, but with these two beside me, I couldn’t possibly be any safer. All the same, I huddle closer to him, soaking up his warmth as the late spring evening turns cool.

"When I was twenty-one, I was out late with…I guess I thought he was my friend at the time. Alex. He was driving. Decided he wanted to knock over a liquor store."

“Knock over, meaning…"

"Rob. Steal cash and some booze. Supposed to be a quick in and out. I wasn't armed—never carried a gun. Didn't need to." He lapses into silence, thinking. Remembering. "Clerk got gutsy. Talked shit to Alex. Alex pulled his gun, and I tried to wrestle it away from him. I wasn't about shooting innocent people. The gun went off, and the clerk got shot."

"It wasn't even your gun, and you were trying to stop it," I protest.

He nods, shrugging. “No security camera inside. Alex was wearing gloves because it was January. I wasn’t. My prints were on the gun; his weren’t. We both got tagged, but he ratted on me and said it was my gun. Didn’t matter what I said because they had my prints on the murder weapon. So I got the manslaughter charge, and Alex only did a nickel. I got twenty-five years."

I gape at him. " Twenty-five years?"

He nods. "Did just shy of eleven."

"Eleven years in prison for something you didn't do?"

A shrug. "I was there. A guy got shot. Someone had to pay."

"Aren't you angry?"

“At who?" A shake of his head. “Alex? I was, for a bit. No point, though."

“No point in being angry at getting framed and spending eleven years in prison for a crime you didn't commit?" I stop and look up at him. "I'd be so angry."

"I did a lot of bad shit before that, Noelle. Hurt a lot of people very badly." He looks down at me, gray-green eyes deep and serious. "Only if they started it, but still. Committed other crimes. Way I see it, I did the time I deserved, just not for the crime I was convicted of."

"You were an orphan. Living on the streets, homeless at twelve? I have to imagine the things you did you only did because you had to, to survive."

A shrug and a nod. "I guess. Doesn’t make it right, though.” He peers into the darkness that's fallen around us, then back at me. "Prison changed me. Learned how to stop being so angry. No more fighting. No more hurting people."

I stare at him, frowning. "You seem so gentle, now, Bear. It's hard to imagine you angry and violent."

He clears his throat, looking away from me. "It's ugly. Dark. Bad. Not who I am anymore."

I cling to his hand, squeezing hard. "No, it's not."

"If you were in a gang and other people carried guns but you didn't…how did you survive?"

He shrugs, making a fist the size of an industrial wrecking ball. "When I hit people, Noelle, they break." The fist relaxes, no longer a deadly weapon, just a hand.

Panzer growls, attention on something in the darkness. He gives one big, deep, threatening bark, and there's the sound of scuffling feet on concrete and a curse as someone runs off.

"Braver Hund, Panzer."

"Not safe around here, Noelle. Not a great area."

I lean into him. “I’m with you."

He heaves a deep breath. "Question I can't answer is why."

I look up at him. The self-doubt in his voice and the implication that I shouldn’t be with him breaks my heart for him. "Why not?"

He doesn't answer for a long time. We’ve long since come full circle back to his building, now standing near my car again. "Lotta guys out there for you, Noelle. Guys who didn't do a dime in the pen for manslaughter."

I shrug. "I suppose. I like you , though." I smile up at him, in the darkness.

"Weird."

I laugh at that. "It's not weird. Geez."

“Is to me."

I sigh and rub his thick, firm forearm with my other hand. "Well, fine. But it's not weird to me."

"I don't understand you, Noelle Harper."

I lift up and kiss the side of his cheek, just above the line of his beard. "Well, Bear Olafsson, we have time for you to learn. I’m not all that complicated, though, I promise."

He doesn’t move for a long time, as if shocked and paralyzed by my kiss.

I'm not sure what possessed me, either, and I know this whole thing is probably crazy. My family won't get it at all. But I find myself not caring.

I've lived most of my life doing things for other people, my family in particular.

This? Getting to know Bear? It's for me.